The Devil's Smile
by The Warped Hatter
Summary: Gone. One by one they were vanishing, disappearing, almost as if they had never existed to begin with. It was up to Ciel Phantomhive to discover the truth, even if the truth lead to a world of decay and despair. M/M - Grell/Undertaker Alois/Claude and many more. From the writers of Romances & Rivalries
1. Prologue

_A/N: This is a joint story. Updates fortnightly._

_'The Hatter' (me) will be writing even-numbered chapters. 'Robin Mask' will be writing the odd-numbered chapters._

_The prologue is by The Hatter._

**The Devil's Smile**

Prologue

Darkness is closing in, enwrapping everything it touches in the insatiable black of the night, reaching and raping and consuming. That is the true nature of the night, to tear down and absorb, to expand its hold on the world and all creation. Which is why in the dark of the night, demons are always found.

In the streets of London, underneath an East End bridge, a man the locals called Old Jack, whose real name was Mathew Sharkey, was hurrying through the night. The man, who concealed his true name, thought he knew true darkness. He had seen it, lived and breathed in, back in the Old Man's manor, where he had worked for the devil himself. The things he had done, the things he had seen and let happen haunted his every step. He had started working for the master when he was twenty-one, recently married; he had thought himself so lucky to become a serving man to the Lord. It was a well-paid job, better pay than a lot of places. Of course he'd find out why the pay had been so high later. He had sold his soul to the devil himself to give his Jane and the children all the nice clothes and food they wanted. His family never suffered, never gone without. But his soul starved. The parks of the money and comforts of being a servant in that house soon drifted away to insignificance. And now it was hardly worth it, he had abandoned his family; he could not hold his little children after what he had seen happen to so many others, so many boys no older than Bill and Eddie – he ran as far from that place when the old man died. He drank away his shames and sins in every London tavern, once a distinguished servant now a dirty old tramp getting pissed on in the street. He had cleaner hands now than he ever did as a servant.

He could change his name; change his appearance, cut away from that old life. He could flee as far from the manor as he could, he could even think sometimes that the old life was far behind him now, he could think that his sins could not find him here. He was wrong; your sins always catch up with you in the end. There is no exception, everyone is judged before the righteous gaze of God in the end.

Mathew stumbled and fell against the cold cobbles of the pavement, the ground biting into his knees; he let out a ragged sob, his hands in his filthy matted hair. He could remember their faces, tiny hands reaching up from the cold damp cellar; hear the terrified sobbing of the little children. _'Please help us, please let us out-!'_

The master called them his 'dolls'. He liked them young, but even then there was a type. He liked them innocent, sweet, happy. Of course a child can only be so innocent, sweet and happy in a place like that, eventually all their eyes become cold and empty and not long after they lose their youthful spark, they die. The master was like a monster, he sucked away their youth and essence and one by one, the children died.

_And you let it happen_

_And I let it happen_, Mathew sobbed into his hands, _I let it happen again and again!_

Some of the boys tried to run, not that they got far. With little food, little water, starved and damaged and broken, how far could they get? The wood stood behind the manor, kept from the boys by a slim metal gate, easy to see and easy to get to, it was not guarded. It was a reminder that they could stay here or they could risk dying cold and alone in the woods. None of them ever returned once they left, Mathew had once been able to pretend those boys who ran were off in the world living happy, better lives; that their time in the manor was merely a bad dream. But that had been a long time ago, he was wiser now, and his soul covered in innocent blood. The woods outside the manor were like a graveyard, all those boys in unmarked graves. The other servants turned the other cheek, they hated it, they had to have – how could they just stand and watch? But nobody said anything; everyone was caught in the spider's web; those poor boys and the servants too, everyone entwined together, powerless and unmoving.

_Let me go to the woods_

Of course in his long list of regrets, there were those who stood out. There was Carin; he was a little younger than the others with olive skin and curly black hair and bright brown eyes. The master took to him right away; he gobbled up the innocent ones with a terrifying ferocity. On countless times it was Mathew had carried Carin back to the cage the master had made for him; his had a bed unlike the cold floor the other boys slept on. He did not catch the same illness that destroyed the rest of the children, Mathew watched the little boy's olive skin begin to grey and his bright eyes dim and die. He stumbled around the manor like a man who had lived a hundred years, not a child of ten. Richard had carried him back to his room one night when Carin touched his sleeve and said in that sad, broken voice '_Let me go to the woods.'_

He carried him down to the kitchens instead of going back to the cage. He went to give him a walking cape, 'The master would not like it if his doll caught a chill,' he had said in that voice all the servants had come to use – to speak as though nothing was wrong, to talk as though the madness did not exist. Carin shook his head, 'I shan't be needing one.' He had brushed it aside and walked naked through the gardens, his thin wrist reached out to open the little metal gate and then he was gone. A tiny, bright light extinguished in the darkness of the spider's gaze.

Robert was a street urchin from Lincoln; he was fourteen with a rebellious streak. Yet there was innocence about him the master liked. Mathew stood at the lord's side, serving him wine as the new boys were brought in one by one. The master would approve them, some he merely nodded at, and others he openly appreciated. The boys would hold back tears, others wouldn't, but they would stand bare to be judged all the same. Robert walked in with his chin held high, silently raging, but when he saw the lord's lustful judging eyes he stepped forward and snatched the wine from his hand. Before anyone could do anything he had thrown it over the master's face, shouting curses at him. Mathew had thought that would be the end of that… but the master had liked his rage. He wanted to break him down, turn the boy into his obedient doll. Robert fought him valiantly; he lashed out and tried to avoid his fate. He tried to rally the other boys against their captor, but none had his spirit. They were too afraid or thought him foolish for trying to break free of the web. Robert stabbed the lord with a dinner fork he had hidden after two weeks of receiving the master's 'special attention'. Mathew tried not to think about the master's response, but it had been him who found Robert's body after the boy hung himself.

And then there was Jim.

Jim. Jim had dead eyes long before he stood before the lord's gaze. He was a handsome boy, feminine looking, everything about his pretty features said he should have been the master's type; everything except those cold eyes. He had not the slightest bit of fear when they brought him to the manor with the others, nor when he was brought before the master. The master didn't like that; he hated those world-weary eyes. He called him 'dirty' over and over again; he struck the boy in rage. Mathew saw the other boys break down in fear and lose themselves to the night, but Jim remained as he was.

He had found him once, by the metal gate, peering out at the wood with those empty eyes._ 'Come along, Jim, best get back inside, you'll catch a cold,'_ he had said gently. The boy didn't answer, and Mathew walked back into the kitchens. Another dead boy, at least this one would not be missed by the master; at least this boy had not been touched by his darkness, though Jim seemed touched by a darkness all his own. But Jim wasn't like the others. He went into the woods and after an hour or so he came back. He was not natural that child. There was always something… wrong with him. His eyes suggested he had lost everything, yet in the weeks that passed Mathew saw those eyes transform into sweet, childlike eyes, seductive eyes, vibrant ones. He did not have a childish spark, but he could play at one. There was always something not quite right, always something that seemed… wrong about that child.

You could run far as you could from your sins, you could run to distant lands across the sea, but your sins would find you again. They always find you in the end.

Mathew heard someone walking towards him, sensed someone close by. He spun around, gripping the wall for support. His heart pounding against his chest, he couldn't see who it was in the darkness. "Is someone there?" he called stupidly, the alcohol heavy on his breath, his movements were so slurred. He was as revolting in appearance as the master had been in soul, he could sleep in the dirt every night and it still wouldn't match the grim under his fingernails, the blood on his hands, the filth on his skin, the filth of hundreds of tiny hands clawing at him, dragging him to hell with them.

"Is someone there?"

He thought he saw a glint of a knife in the darkness; heard the fast tapping feet moving towards him. Mathew Sharkey closed his eyes, stumbling away from the wall, he put his hands over his head and dropped to his knees, "I never stopped 'im, I let 'im – I let 'im – Oh God, forgive me, all those kiddies-! I never stopped 'im-!" he sobbed weakly, "I deserve to die-!"

"Why yes," whispered a smooth, sultry voice. The speaker was behind him, how were they so close? He could feel their breath against his cheek, cold and fresh; this man had come here for him tonight. "Yes, you do." He thought of his wife, his boys, of Carin and Robert and all the others one last time, as the talon like fingers pierced his flesh.

* * *

"Third son of labourer, Daniel Sharkey; real name Mathew Sharkey; husband of Jane and father to William and Edward Sharkey. Cause of death: blood loss. Today the 19th May 1889. No particular further notes."

William T Spears glanced down at his notes; this was the thirtieth unusual death. Strange flesh piercing wounds usually originating from the victim's back. These souls were dying at a range of ages, young children to pensioners, men and women, all over the country with the same cause of death, same wounds. It was… puzzling. He sensed something unnatural at work here. Demons most likely from the way the last seconds were presented in the cinematic records he had observed… but these did not seem like a demon killing. For why, of course, would a demon leave the souls intact?

Hopefully no reapers were involved, namely one Grell Sutcliff who never seemed to be far from trouble… Not that he could question Grell at the moment even if he wanted too. That ridiculous man was being quite impossible at present, particularly where Will himself was involved. He frowned, peering over his notes again before he closed the book and glanced around the dank streets of London. The city always had that repulsive smell of corruption and disease; he preferred not to come here. William pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh; there was something fowl going on behind the scenes with these unusual deaths. No doubt it would come to light eventually, these things always did. It was the reaper's job to observe and do what was due.

He left Old Jack – or Mathew Sharkey's – body to be found in the morning by a couple of street children, who would loot through his filthy clothes before kicking it into the river.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

"To perform a job quietly from the shadows . . ."

Sebastian placed the cup of tea down beside his lord with a quiet grace. Their routine had been almost etched in stone, something so unmoving and fixed that should their routine err in any way Sebastian was sure that his young lord would be unable to cope. How could one continue to believe in their core beliefs when something as fundamental as a daily cup of tea could no longer be counted upon? The normalcy of it was as sickening as it was hypocritical.

"Is that not the job of a servant?" Sebastian asked with a rather sincere smile. "Do not worry, my Lord. I will see to it that the noisy trio becomes as silent as Snake or Tanaka, even if I must take a _special _interest in the lives of those downstairs."

"Good. See to it that it doesn't happen again."

"Yes, my Lord."

Ceil sipped his tea whilst Sebastian stood by his side, his smile fading just slightly – almost imperceptibly – so that his red eyes seemed to narrow dangerously into the beginnings of a frown. There was rarely ever emotion behind his façade at the best of times, but at times like this his blatant indifference seemed to be replaced with repressed resentment, and as his gloved hands touched upon today's letters he seemed to regard Ceil with something akin to disinterest. It was a feeling shared by both men. Ceil would never admit to the complex emotions interplaying between the two, but he would willingly admit that both men sought to torture one another as much as possible without doing any lasting harm.

The knife that appeared in Sebastian's hand sliced through the first of the envelopes with little resistance, a small cat hair slipped from his white glove and the butler had to suppress a flinch as he saw it. He quickly slipped it into his pocket without being seen, but he couldn't help but smile sadistically as Ciel's nose furrowed and the growing boy – not quite a man – sneezed in a childlike manner.

"It seems as if you have been invited to a ball held by Lady Midford, my lord," Sebastian said casually, automatically handing the invitation to Ciel even though the child would undoubtedly dispose of it. "If you have forgotten your dancing lessons I would be happy to offer you further tuition upon the matter, although there surely must come a stage when denial wears thin and a lost cause becomes recognisable for what it surely is."

Ciel all but snatched the letter from Sebastian's hand and skimmed through its contents with a bored eye, before shooting a curiously dark glare at his butler, but – against all logic – ignoring the blatant insult that was rather explicitly thrown his way. It seemed as if Sebastian's temper with the staff had worn thin if he couldn't even work out a more subtle – or even clever – insult with which to work Ciel's last nerve. It didn't mean anything to Ceil, however, because he was the master in this relationship, and as such he was guaranteed the last laugh.

"I suppose I am obliged to go," Ciel said in an almost whine.

"Indeed."

"However I have more urgent business to attend to," he said, putting down his tea and reaching for the broadsheets of a newspaper. "I will reply some other time, I am sure my aunt can wait a week or two. What other news is there?"

Sebastian looked at the two letters remaining in his grasp, along with a long strand of red hair that remained caught between his thumb and the white paper beneath. The first hair he had found had been many weeks ago on their return to the manor from Noah's Circus and the workhouse, and – since then – he had found a multitude of hairs lurking about the manor. He wasn't sure what concerned him more: the watchful eye of a man he detested, or the fact that someone could shed so much hair and not be completely bald.

He pocketed the hair so that it would remain out of his lord's sight. It simply would not do to make mention of such a thing, for after the incident with Madame Red – and later on the Campania – his lord would only make ridiculous demands that would take up _far _too much of him time to make such requests worth while. He scowled as he recognised the handwriting of the first letter . . .

It seemed this would be a catch twenty-two, as neither letter foretold good news, and – with a lord such as his own – he could only assume that what would follow would be a case of 'shoot the messenger'. He had grown somewhat tired of playing the roles or doctor or circus-act or teacher . . . endless commands often ended with dirty tasks, something that he often felt above as a demon. He disliked playing with his food, particularly when he didn't actually get to _eat _it, and so socialising with such creatures felt rather pointless and torturous.

"There is," he said, with a slight pause for effect, "an invitation from Alois Trancy –"

"_Burn it_."

Ciel's expression turned fast sour. He flipped his newspaper in half with a sudden and violent gesture, the relationship between the two teenagers was beyond frightening, with their rivalry as 'spider' and 'dog' reaching the far corners of both their lives. There had been . . . _skirmishes _between the two, and the last had resulted in a fancy-dress ball going horribly wrong, but since then there had been nothing but silence . . . silence and further invitations from Alois for his 'friend' to visit. The last time the two had met things had very nearly resulted in a sword-fight.

"The final letter," Sebastian continued, "appears to be from her Majesty."

"Indeed? What does it say?"

"I am afraid, my lord, that in order to tell the contents of a letter that one must first _open _the letter. I had assumed you would wish to read such a letter yourself, but – if you wish – I am certainly happy to read it for you."

The dark-haired boy glared darkly at Sebastian and seemed to think for a long moment. Ceil always forbade any item, creature, or circumstance that may be considered a source of joy for the demon, up to – and including – his beloved cats, even making known that were his allergies non-existent that they would still be forbidden from the manor. A mere letter would not amuse Sebastian, but Ciel's potential discomfort and displeasure – depending on the contents of the letter – most certainly would, but whatever secrets the letter held Sebastian would be privy to them in the course of time. Ciel would inevitably forgo pointless attempts at privacy for lazy ease, and thus give Sebastian a scrap of sadistic pleasure for the sake of avoiding dirtying his hands with the ink of a letter.

Ciel sighed and placed his newspaper down beside his cup, carefully resting a hand upon the print as he cast a curious gaze to his butler. His lips were pursed into something of a pout, his fingers drummed a long line on the pages beneath him, and as he looked to Sebastian he eventually looked away. The sounds of Pluto howling in the distance and of crockery smashing below were deafening in the small study, and distracting to the young ears of the master.

"What does it say, Sebastian?"

"It appears that you are required to investigate a string of disappearances that have occurred throughout the country," Sebastian said, frowning a little as his eyes continued to scan the lines. "It seems that the wife of her Majesty's nephew has recently been declared missing. That alone would not usually warrant the attention of the Phantomhive family on its own, but there have been some exceedingly similar cases of missing people throughout the country."

"Similar how?"

"Similar in that each missing person has no living relatives or discernable family in the slightest, similar in that each person made complaints to various authoritarian figures of being 'watched' within the last week previous to their death, and similar in that various 'confessions' were found within their abodes. Her Majesty's niece was unusual in that she was the only one of the missing people to have family of any sort, albeit those 'family' were the ones that she had married into and bore no blood relation to her in the slightest. The confessions are vague and make no mention to any specific crime or person, only a mere 'apology' to no one specific . . ."

"Unusual, indeed."

Ciel reached out a gloved hand to Sebastian and awaited a response. It only took a mere second for the letter to be placed into his hand, at which point he perused it with a mild interest and stubborn curiosity. Sebastian watched as that working eye moved swiftly across the page with a diligence only a noble could possess, searching for anything hidden between the lines that might give away more about the present case. It would be a fruitless search.

The young master threw the letter down to the table, the loud slap of paper upon wood echoing about the study whilst Sebastian kept his eyes trained on Ciel. It seemed that his master had succumbed to undue pressure over the past few weeks, and the present rivalries with Tracy, the seeming betrayal of the Undertaker, and frivolous requests of the Queen had done naught to ease his concerns and worries. He coped well, as only a noble could, but little signs slipped through that revealed his human weakness for emotion and trivial feelings. Sebastian could not ignore the tensed muscles when he bathed his master or the twitching of his eye when certain sounds caught his ears, and it amused him to see him suffer so. It was a type of justice . . . perhaps a banal justice, but justice nonetheless.

Ciel stood rather abruptly and walked to the windowpane, his eye gazing out over the gardens. Sebastian did not need to look to know that Finny would be tending to the plants in one far corner, or that the young maid would be rushing up the path in an overcoat and a bag full of groceries, or even that Pluto would be running freely in dog form looking for someone to stroke his coat. Humans – once set in a routine – _rarely _deviated from routine.

"Perhaps we should try our luck with the Undertaker," Ciel said uncertainly.

Sebastian felt his eyes widen just a little in surprise, but he schooled his emotions quickly and suppressed the swelling rage inside his chest. His trademark smile soon replaced any previous expression and – little by little – the shock in his eyes was gone completely, leaving nothing but a reddening glow that expressed an intense frustration and a desire for revenge that could match even his master's in intensity.

"Is that wise, my lord?"

"No, but we have no other choice as of this precise moment," Ciel snapped bitterly as he turned from the window. "If these victims _were_ in fact being watched then we cannot discount foul play, and so we must consider the fact that there are bodies lurking somewhere in the depths of the underworld. The Undertaker may be a 'violator', but so long as he lives in our realm then he must rely upon a profession in order to survive . . . we have no choice but to ask a favour of him."

"He may not be in a humorous mood," Sebastian said in all seriousness. "It is very likely that he shall refuse to work with us or divulge necessary information, and that alone assumes he has returned to his previous work and place of abode."

"There is only one way to find out. If he refuses to co-operate then we may remind him of the _momento mori _that we hold; it would be a shame if something were to happen to it, would it not? If that fails make mention of the fact we require his help . . . _make him laugh at that_."

The young lord reached for his cane and moved in front of his desk. He stood before Sebastian with legs slightly parted, back straight and chin high, and a stern look upon his indifferent expression. He radiated control and power. It amused Sebastian to see a boy so small – whose strength paled in comparison to his female cousin, who appeared to be kidnapped at regular intervals – could strive to be so collected and attempt to exert his 'power' in all areas. The mere act was so human. He even went so far as to wear heels to increase his stature, so insecure for one so 'strong'.

"Tanaka can look after the servants and the manor here," the young master commanded. "I will take Snake as my personal valet, although this is in name only. I expect you to take care of everything as usual, Sebastian."

"Of course, I would expect nothing else."

"Then please alert Agni to our arrival," Ciel said curtly. "I wish to be on the train by this afternoon, no later, and – Sebastian – whatever you do . . . _do not _let that freeloading prince know we are on our way! If he catches wind of this I dread to think what kind of 'celebrations' he'll have planned for our arrival."

"Yes, my lord."

"Good, now go see to it. It is time for my lessons."

"Yes, my lord."

Sebastian bowed deeply to his master, one hand over his breast, before he set walked at a brusque pace away from his master and out of the room. The door closed softly behind him, but it did little to hide the sigh he could hear expire from his lord's lips, something so soft and ephemeral that it was lost as soon as it was uttered. He waited for a brief moment. He needed to be sure his services were no longer required, that he would not be called back . . . it seemed today he was lucky. He was not called back.

He ignored the loud hissing noise by his feet as a long snake slithered by, the same way he ignored the shattering of crockery not too far away or the explosion from the kitchen, and he even managed to ignore the cries from the garden and the howling that followed. This house was chaos. It was nothing but a swarming hive in which Sebastian was expected to exact control, and – in all honesty – he found it tiring. There were many times he allowed the messes to accumulate, or for his master to stew, solely to exact some _real _sense of control and tame revenge upon those that tormented him with such chores, but he knew that he would inevitably be required to clear any potential messes up. It was sometimes easier to stop them before they started, even if that meant being a good, little butler.

He shot his hand down and grabbed the rogue snake by its neck, lifting it upwards to stare into its beady eyes. The snake soon quietened and fell into a seeming sleep. That would do for now, but he would have to have to talk to Snake before he made the preparations for their departure. It simply would not do to take such venomous creatures with them to London, nor could they leave them free in the manor with Pluto around to potentially try and eat one. They would have to find a compromise.

Sebastian draped the snake around his shoulder and made to fix the series of messes that had occurred in his absence, starting with the broken plates and the broken oven down in the kitchens. He had barely moved a step though when he caught a noise from his master's study, a noise of trickling water and a exclamation of disgust, which was followed by a loud shout of:

"Sebastian! My tea is cold! Fetch me another!"

"Yes, my lord . . ."

The smell was intoxicating . . .

Claude could not put it into words, he could not compare it to basic human sensations or emotions, but he imagined that it would be akin to the most rare of wines or the sweetest of desserts. It did not quite match the delicate and complex palate that was Ciel, but it was still rather tempting . . . like the tantalising starter to the main course of a pleasant evening. It was too much to resist.

He reached down to touch his master's foot, allowing his hands to run along the calf hidden beneath the soft socks that crawled higher than the knee, and indifferently looked up to see Alois smiling down with an extremely pleased smile. The blond boy loved him. He practically opened the door to his bedroom – among other things – to Claude on a regular basis, but so far Claude had refused to entertain such notions or give into his master's invitations. He would willingly drink the blood from any wound, willingly bathe any inch of skin, but to willingly warm the bed of such an obnoxious brat . . . _clinging _to him like a mould . . . he would not.

Claude looked up to his master over the rims of his glasses. He knew what would wipe that smile from that pale, white face . . . he knew what would cease that joy. He reached down and placed a soft kiss upon the top of that foot. He felt Alois flinch, but he held firm, looking up to see that smile break just slightly in mild confusion, but then – against the expectations of Alois – he kissed again, this time drawing a sensual line upwards towards the thigh . . .

Alois' smile was completely erased at this point. The joy that Claude felt was only momentary as the young boy's foot came up to kick him hard upon the face, sending his head jarringly knocked to one side. If this were Ciel the offence would stem from the familiarity, but with Alois the offence was the insincerity . . . how _dare _Claude not worship him . . . how dare he indeed? Claude fought back a smile.

"You know I hate it when you do that! Why do you keep doing things that I hate?"

"Do you truly hate what I do?" Claude stood and raised his head, looking down at Alois as the boy sat with hands clenched hard upon the bed. "Is there a reason for your disgust at a mere kiss? Did something once happen to you? Did someone kiss you there that you wish to forget?"

"You – you hate me," Alois continued. "I know you hate me! You were going to bring me roses . . . Hannah brought in the bluebells . . . the triplets told me so. You couldn't even get _that _right!"

"The condition of my contract requires that I serve you. I fulfil the conditions of your requests as _per _the request; if you wish for more then you must be more precise upon your wishes. I cannot be expected to humour you on all occasions, and nor can I be expected to remember your favourite flowers when a whim of yours occurs. Do you know the favourite flower of the lamb you eat? Do you care to remember its name?"

"So I am nothing but food to you? I'm not nothing! I'm the lord here!"

"Yes, you are lord _here_," Claude said coldly.

Alois seemed – for one brief moment – to be on the verge of mature behaviour. He thrust his foot out as if he were willing to ignore what had happened, as if he wished for Claude to resume lacing his boots for him, but no sooner had Claude began to hope for the best had the boy reached out and took a hold of a long glass vase that stood upon his bedside table.

There wasn't even so much as a flinch as the vase came past his head and struck hard the wall behind him, causing crystal shards to scatter about the floor – even in his hair – as the glass smashed completely somewhere above his head. Claude refused to so much as dust off his shoulders as he stared emptily at the boy. Alois' gaze was hard, but it was not strong enough to resist the penetrative stare sent back upon him, and soon he had thrown himself hard upon the bed and began to weep as if all the pain and betrayal he felt were flooding through his system, leaving him in one fell swoop. It was like watching meat marinate itself. Alois' pain only made him more delicious.

"If Ciel finds out he'll hate me," Alois managed to spit coherently through broken sobs, "he'll hate me like you hate me! I know you like him more than you like me. I ought to kill him . . . I'll rip off his wings so he can't fly! You won't love him more than me then! You won't!"

"A broken butterfly still holds more worth than a roach."

"Leave me alone! Go away! Leave me alone!"

Claude looked at his master with a cold stare and turned around so that his back was to him and his expression out of sight. He knew the boy's fears well, because those fears that plagued the boy threatened to break the status quo of Claude's life just as much as they threatened to destroy Alois'. The boy's claim to the Trancy name was . . . _tenuous _to say the least, and if it were to be discovered that he were not the biological child of the late Lord Trancy the boy's life would be destroyed. That may have been why Alois so clung to Ciel, so desperate for approval, so desperate to prove that his life were worth living . . . the broken noble . . .

"Yes, your Highness."

"C-Claude?"

The tall butler obeyed his command and walked away. He often wondered if Alois would kill himself were it to be discovered about his heritage, or if he would cling to life the way he had done so many years ago, grasping that spider's thread with a desperation that only a human could endure. He wanted Alois to die, for the boy's worth lay in what his soul held, but only alive could he provide some morbid entertainment for Claude as the demon awaited something _better_.

No sooner had he reached the door had he felt a hard weight about his waist. He looked down to see purple-clad arms around his waist, the teenage fingers clawing at him so strongly that they would surely leave marks, and as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes Alois pressed against him. The boy's cheek was flat against his back, and he could feel the reverberating shakes of each and every one of his sobs, the wet tears starting to soak through his jacket as he stood still. There would come a command. There was always a command. The boy was a mixture of contradictions, a mass of contradictions, and his bipolar temperament defined what it meant to be a Trancy butler. It defined Claude.

"D-don't leave me! Don't ever leave me! Please, don't leave."

"To turn night into day and day into night," Claude said aloud in a cold and clinical tone. "I will do as you command, my Highness."

"C-Claude!"

Yes, it was the Trancy butler way, and as such he would be forced to allay any of his master's concerns, even if those concerns were not one with Claude's. Time would tell of Alois' true origins, and when they did Claude would be there to devour the soul that had eluded him for so long, he would be there to take what was rightfully his, and he would enjoy every last second of it . . .

"Yes, your Highness."


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

by the Hatter

Another letter from Alois had come on the morning of their arrival. A personal invitation, he was having a ball to celebrate his fifteenth birthday. There was to be a grand and extravagant ball, probably hundreds of guests, the Trancy family all but vanished from public view when Old Lord Trancy had been alive. Ciel recalled seeing him once or twice at the previous Phantomhive head's public functions. The previous head hadn't cared for him much; the watchdog and the spider may function as one unit, purifying Britain for the Queen's demand, but their two families had a history of distrust and rivalry.

Ciel had never met Alois when they were children; Lord Trancy was a private man, his pretty young wife had committed suicide after their son went missing. The boy was very small, three of four. It was a terrible tragedy, Lord Trancy had almost vanished from public view, his younger brother, Arnold Trancy, keeping up appearances for the family at functions, whilst the previous Trancy head performing the spider's duties in the dark. He re-emerged briefly after it was announced that he had found his young son, Alois, now a boy of thirteen. That was the first time they had been introduced, it was also the first time Ciel remembered seeing Old Lord Trancy properly. They seemed affectionate; Ciel personally, could not imagine being reunited with a loved one, long believed dead. The idea unsettled him, and he had other business to attend. He and Lau were meeting with a Russian contact with information concerning the drugs trade.

But Alois Trancy had greeted him all the same. He tapped him on the shoulder and smiled that bright, carefree smile, "Ciel? You are Ciel Phantomhive, aren't you?" His accent was common, not how noblemen should speak, but the boy had been missing from high society for the whole of his life. He seemed cheerful and naïve, Ciel was surprised such a person had taken the time to seek him out personally. The spider and the watchdog rarely came into contact, Lord Arnold Trancy avoided him at those sorts of events and Ciel did the same.

_"Yes, you are Alois Trancy. Welcome back," he said stiffly._

_"So you're the Queen's guard-dog," Alois giggled happily, "You're so young to have such an important job!"_

_"Her Majesty's watchdog," he corrected, trying to keep his temper out of his voice. His patience had been irked, but Ciel managed a stiff nod, "It is my duty as head of the Phantomhive family. And I am quite busy, so if you'll excuse me."_

_"Oh! Right, I'm sorry. I'm still learning all of these things," the blond boy laughed again, his laugh was childish, his smile embarrassed. "I won't take up anymore of your time! It was lovely meeting you, Ciel!" he took his hand and squeezed it gently, beaming at him._

_The touch had startled him; a perfect stranger had no right to be so familiar with him. He pulled his hand free, now noticeably scowling. But Alois Trancy kept smiling, and then the former Trancy head came towards them. For a second Ciel thought he meant to greet him too, which would have been… very strange, he was about to think of a reason why the spider would present itself so; when he caught sight of Lord Trancy's face. He was breathless, his old eyes full of confusion. He seemed flushed; Ciel could smell the wine on him from there._

_"Alois, you shouldn't go so far, I was looking for you," he touched the boy's shoulder._

_"Lord Trancy, Alois, enjoy the celebrations," Ciel said politely, steering away with a respectful nod of his head. For a split second he thought he saw Alois roll his eyes as he turned to face his father. At the time he thought he had imagined it, now… not so much._

There was something… wrong about the young Trancy heir, something… rotten.

*/*/* line break */*/*

The journey to London always proved exhausting and hardly worth the effort… but Her Majesty's orders were orders. He would be forced the face the capital city's stink and the disgusting villainy of every other person you brushed shoulders with. As the Queen's watchdog most of those he removed were from the London area; Ciel was always going to have to come here, though ever since Madam Red's death, his dislike of the city had become stronger and stronger.

"Sebastian…"

His butler was sat opposite him, red eyes fixing on him when he spoke, "Yes, my lord?"

"You brought the case documents, did you not? I wish to go over them."

"Why at once," he opened up the leather satchel at his side, running a gloved finger along the papers and retrieving the necessary ones. It was an overview; so far, the real investigation would begin once they reached London. The London metropolitan police would be of no use, as per usual, though it amused Ciel how his presence there ruffled their feathers so.

"The victims are widely spread across social status and age. Aside from Her Majesty's nephew's wife, Lady Grace, what ties the victims together is a distinct lack of family or friends. And even the Lady Grace has no record of friends of family prior to her marriage. The murders are occurring all over the country," Sebastian summarised, his eyes glancing over the notes. "The names of the victims suggest a certain use of an alias. However, there was a couple of exceptions, for instance, my young master," he turned the sheet towards him, "This young boy was identified as Dorian Daniels, his body was discovered in a field twenty miles or so from Lincoln. Though having no family, the boy was cared for by the local magistrate. He claims that Dorian went missing as a small child, emerging just a year ago."

Ciel peered at the small photograph, it had been taken about a week or so before Dorian Daniels died, the boy was about fifteen, he was skinny, pale, with a few freckles dotted across his cheeks. There was something about him that seemed drained.

"Are you suggesting that the victims all met at some time in the past?"

"So it would appear, my lord. The connection between them is beginning to appear obvious enough."

"Yes," Ciel nodded, frowning, his ring felt cold against his cheek as he concentrated; "I want to hear more about these unusual wounds. I am sure the Undertaker will be able to shed some light on the subject."

"Rather, my lord," Sebastian smirked, "It is, after all, an area our associate takes such passion in."

They had little to no contact with the Undertaker since what occurred out at sea. The man had always been accommodating enough, and as difficult as he could be, he had never truly refused Ciel anything before. There was something about this case that bothered him, right from the beginning. The wounds from behind, bursting the victim through to the stomach, talon like claws piercing the flesh and ripping through the body. It reminded him of the bodies of those animals on the night he and Sebastian made their contract. He shivered now to think of it, cold blue eyes gazing out at the countryside. If he closed them, he could smell his blood, feel those dirty hands on him, the mark on his back would throb as if it was freshly branded. Yet the memory of it didn't fill him with fear as it had once, instead it burnt silently in the pit of his soul. The memories of his shame and humiliation would do nothing but guide him towards his goal; there was no point in letting your past destroy you. When tragedy struck, you either fell into a pit of despair, never to rise again. Or you grasped at the walls of the pit and forced yourself, bloody and broken to climb out and become something else altogether. Ciel had climbed from the pit and Sebastian, the demon who wore a man's form became his butler.

To imagine that day, and to remember the demon that appeared from the darkness as Ciel burnt in all his anger – such a being looked upon him and Ciel's world was transformed once again. He had seen the demon take on a human form, and alter the world with it. It was so strange, glancing across at him and knowing what he was; a monster who wore a man's shape like clothes. It was fitting this would be the man to stand at Ciel's side for the rest of his life. He was his butler and that is all that he needed to know.

Thinking of Sebastian and how Ciel had seen him kill before, could it be possible there was an unnatural force at work here? Who would go to the trouble to send assassins all over the country to kill off, what would appear to be, perfectly ordinary people. These murders were too messy for simple assassinations. Whoever it was would simply be drawing attention to themselves, it would be sheer madness. It would be a matter of waiting and learning the connection between them, that would lead him to this killer.

"Sebastian," he glanced up, "You didn't tell Prince Soma I was coming, did you?"

"Of course not, my lord, if I couldn't assure your arrival with the most discretion, well, what kind of butler would I be?"

Ciel scowled into his smiling face and took a couple of the pages from him, scanning over the list of names. Everything they had so far said they could be in London for a while, sniffing out the culprit. "When will we be arriving?"

"We shall be arriving in London at approximately three o'clock, should carriage traffic be on a decrease."

"Good."

"For tonight's dinner I shall prepare a dish of seared sea scallops and lemon and white wine, if you find that agreeable, sir?"

"Rather," Ciel placed the papers aside, "I want you to arrange a meeting with Lau for this evening. I want as much information he can offer me as possible before I see the Undertaker."

"Yes, my lord."

*/*/* line break */*/*

There were times Alois would waken in the night, feel the old man's hands on him, creeping beneath his night shirt, and feel his rancid breath on the back of his neck. He'd scream out into the darkness, as he did once, but Claude did not come to him anymore. He was alone in the dark with just foggy nightmarish memories hanging over him. The truth seemed to catch up with him every night, the old man clawing at him from beyond the grave, reaching up to drag his dirty being back to Hell. But that was not the truth anymore; he was given a new name. It was not him with the bruises in the night, not him with the bites at his neck. He was Alois Trancy now – he was a wealthy count, he had a future, a grand manor, servants, horses, and… he had Claude. He had his Claude…

"Master, what is the matter? Have you had another nightmare?"

It was Hannah at his side, Hannah's hands touching him, Hannah's voice trying to calm him down. That was not what he wanted. That was never what he wanted-! He wanted Claude, he wanted his butler. That was how it was supposed to be, that was how it was always supposed to be!

"Get away from me, you stupid tart!" he slammed the palm of his hand against her face, shoving her back sharply.

She gasped as she fell, her forehead bleeding from where his nails had scraped her. She did not move for a moment and neither did he. Their eyes met in the darkness, and it was her who looked away first. Hannah lowered her head in a graceful courtesy, "Forgive me, Master. I only meant too-!"

"Go and fetch Claude-! GET CLAUDE NOW! I DON'T WANT YOU!" he drew the bedclothes back around him, hugging his knees to his chest, "Get Claude now-!" he could feel the sobs building up in his chest, how his knees trembled. He could feel the old ache; feel the bites on his neck, the bruises on his wrists. He could not see they were not there in the dark. No, they weren't there… His hands were shaking as he fumbled with the matches at his bedside, the candles had gone out. He struck one and it snapped in half, Alois could feel the fears running down his cheeks, he struck another, this time the end burst into a bright little flame. He let out a sigh of relief, rocking back and forth slightly, his legs clasped together, watching it as it slowly travelled down the match, closer and closer to his fingers. Briefly he remembered the fires in the village, the distant embers of the buildings where he found Luca's body… "Ah-!" he cried out in alarm, dropping the burnt match as the flames licked his fingers. The burning match landed on his wooden bedside table, simmering for a moment before extinguishing under a white gloved hand.

"Master, are you trying to burn down your bedroom again?"

"Everyone is going to find out-! Everyone-! Ciel won't answer me-! Everyone will look at me and know something is wrong-!" he started to sob, dropping to his knees and clinging to Claude's thigh, his arms wrapped around it, burying his face against the butler's knee, "Please, Claude-! I'm so afraid-!"

"There is no reason for my master to fear," he bent down, one hand touching his cheek so gently, "Come, get back into bed. I am with you now."

"Y-Yes," he sobbed, "Oh, Claude-! Promise you'll be with me forever-! Forever, you have to stay-!" he clasped at the hand on the cheek, kissing the material of the glove, "Oh, Claude-! Promise me you'll never go-!"

"Yes Your Highness," he whispered, bowing his head respectfully, golden eyes glancing up at him in the dark. This was all he needed. Alois let out a soft sigh of relief as Claude lifted him up, strong arms around him; he buried his face in his chest, wiping his tears away. Claude placed him down on the bed, drawing the sheets around him. Alois reached out and took his hand, "Come in here. Stay here with me."

"It was be improper for a butler to share a bed with his master, Your Highness," he said in that cold flat voice, shutting out the warmth and leaving Alois alone in the darkness again.

His rage bubbled inside his belly and Alois felt his hands clench on the bed sheets, "Are you not supposed to obey my every command?" he asked bitterly.

"You commanded me to be your butler, sir."

"You're so cruel, Claude."

"I am your loyal servant. You do not need to prove your worth to me like that."

"No…" he covered his face, sitting up and drawing his knees to his chest, "You just think I'm dirty and vulgar, just like the old man said…"

"How could I think such a thing?" the hand was on his cheek, stroking so gently, Alois looked up into those golden eyes staring into his, almost like on that day. The day they met, where Claude looked at him like only he existed in this world.

"Oh, Claude-!" his fears bubbled away and Alois clung to him, his head against his chest. The silence of Claude always soothed him. It slowed down the noise of Alois's own head, it made everything alright again.

"You are my master, and as a butler I follow your orders absolutely, until the end. I grow hungrier each day," he leant in as if to inhale the scent of his hair.

'Until the end', he always said that, always reminded him that his services came with a price and Claude never ceased to remind him of what that price would be. His every nice gesture; a clean, well-kept manor, good food, warmth, soft word, all of it was just an exchange. Now he was a Count, everyone seemed to want something from him, whether it is wealth, land, money or his affections. And like everyone else, Claude had his price. He did not truly care about him and every time he reminded Alois of the price he'd pay, he made that very clear. It was the one thing that Claude betrayed of himself; his eyes and expressions betrayed nothing of his true thoughts. Alois hated not knowing what people were thinking, everyone was cruel in keeping their intentions from him; how he could be certain that they would not betray him. How could he be certain Claude would always be true to him?

He knew lust, knew wanting, and he had seen it in Claude's eyes when he looked at Ciel Phantomhive. Once Alois had been pure too, and at times he still felt it. He lusted for Claude, and at other times he just wanted him to hold him gently. He craved attention and he feared attention; it was ever changing in a never ending spinning wheel.

"Just forget about it…" he brushed the hand away from his face, wiping away his tears, "Just stay by the door for all I care."

"I will watch over you, Your Highness," he bowed respectfully.

Frowning Alois lay down on his side, watching Claude's golden eyes in the dim light of the room, watching him and only him. Perhaps that was all the comfort he could hope for tonight. One day perhaps, Claude would see his true heart; see how pure his feelings were. Ciel was a mere fancy compared to someone like Claude. He had to see that.

*/*/* line break */*/*

By morning Alois was feeling much stronger. At one time a boy named Jim, whose dear brother Luca had died some years before, would wake up beside a lecherous monster. He would watch the sun rise in the large window beside the bed. He would slip from the bed, careful not to wake the monster beside him, and walk to the window. He would inhale the morning air and watch the spider in its web dotted with morning dew. It was that sight which kept that boy named Jim sane in an insane world. It was lucky Alois Trancy never had to do something like that. The mornings always made him feel safe. He had passed the darkness of the night and he was safe once again.

He'd always wake in the morning, but would pretend to be asleep so Claude would wake him gently. Today was no exception; he felt the warm sun on the back of his head and wriggled a little in the bed, stirring slightly before burying his face in the pillows.

"Your Highness," Claude murmured, "It is time to rise."

Alois shook his head lazily, stretching and twisting his head to look up at him, "Oh, good morning, Claude," he yawned exaggeratedly. "I slept very well."

"I am glad to hear that, Master. Your schedule is clear today, sir, so you may enjoy whatever leisurely activities as befits you."

The schedule was nearly always clear. Sometimes he would sign documents; at others he would accept invitations to charity balls and gala events. He had not wanted to bother with that kind of dull rubbish to begin with; the Old Man never seemed too. Though as his dear father aged he had little mind for much. Ciel, however, was always busy doing his duties as a nobleman. Alois had not wanted to go among nobles at first, he was cautious. When the Old Man was alive, he had shown him off at various parties. That was where he met Ciel. When the Old Man died, Alois was worried he had lost his assurance among these people. He would get things wrong, Claude told him that nobility was treacherous and they would exploit weakness. He could help him learn their ways, but he could only stand in the background, as he was merely a butler. It wasn't fair… How could he be expected to remember every little detail?

His uncle Arnold was on his heels like a shark. He was furious that he didn't see an ounce of the Old Man's money, or rather Alois's money, as it was now. He was waiting for him to slip up, waiting for an error so he could call him false. That was why Alois had dismissed the servants, they were weak. If Uncle Arnold flashed his money, breathed his disgusting breath over them, some of them would be inclined to talk. People were so very weak, how could he be sure such people would remain loyal to him. They had to go; all of them had to go. None had helped him before, so death was what they deserved. It was fair.

His cousin, Aleister Chambers, the Viscount of Druitt, had been different. He was foolishly spoilt, easily excited and rather stupid. He was taken in with but one smile. The Viscount took Alois under his wing in a sense at the first function they were both invited too. He was so eccentric; he took the liberty of introducing Alois to all his friends, most of them were stupid dolled up society tarts. Everyone said Alois had the Trancy colouring, how wonderful it was that his late father found him again after all that time apart, how much he resembled the late Lady Trancy, which Alois thought was funny. The nobility didn't seem so scary after that. Most of them chattered away like birds in spring. Others bitched and backstabbed, and some… some, like Ciel Phantomhive, looked and saw everything.

That was why it irritated him that Claude would not be at his side in such things. He'd escort him in and stand at the back wall with the other servants, watching him. But watching him wasn't good enough. Alois had tried to make him jealous. He had plenty of admirers with which to do so. Lord Gregory was a distinguished writer, a bachelor; he flirted with Alois almost shamelessly.

_"Cousin, you are an innocent in the great sea of our London society and do not see the angelic fluttering wings of love in Lord Gregory's eyes!" Aleister had told him in a hushed whisper as if he was passing on great wisdom. "He puts the lusts and fancies of a woman onto you and breathes passionate breathes when you pass by!"_

That was funny too; Alois had been able to see that in a person from the age of nine; although he was glad that to the masses he could seem innocent and sweet.

The Lord was the most persistent. He sent Alois poems sometimes; Alois personally never much cared for poetry, but he appreciated the gesture very much. Claude had gotten him to read the classics so to fit in with educated chatter. Alois preferred to see plays – poems weren't at all irritating in plays! They told stories of beauty and romance… If Shakespeare had written Alois a sonnet, then that was a different matter. Though he was sure he should like anything Claude wrote him, so long that it was written just for him. Sadly, Lord Gregory was no Claude or even Shakespeare.

Then there was Fernando, a young Italian nobleman and actor. He was a friend of the Viscount's; he dallied amongst the young ladies and a couple of young men. He danced with anyone he liked, whether they are male or female, and people just accepted it because he was an actor. He was charming but a little too forward for Alois's liking. He would pull him too close and hold him too tight. Sometimes it scared him and reminded him of Jim. He'd lead him on because he wanted Claude to come and save him.

Percival Martin, Earl Martin's son was another admirer. He was a graduate from Weston College, he was bookish and dull. He trailed after him at function's and looked after him in some of the more awkward situations of which Alois was not yet accustomed. His finer features were that he wore glasses, like Claude, and had dark hair, like Claude… He also knew gossip on pretty much everyone. He was also very bashful, which made Alois's job of gossip stealing incredibly easy… a smile here, a pout there, a little bit of flirting and he got what he wanted.

Alois would giggle and flirt, whispering sweet things in his admirers' ear. He'd touch his arm, or place a hand on his chest. Always a fleeting gesture, that way it would look innocent enough. He'd glance back at Claude, smirking nastily, wanting to see hurt or jealousy on his face. But alas, Claude just watched.

Did demons have a heart at all?

If Claude had a heart, Alois wanted to tear it out and keep it inside him so Claude could never give it to anyone else. Then everything would be alright.

*/*/* line break */*/*

"Did you know," Alois said cheerfully as he finished his breakfast, "that Sebastian often acts as Ciel's tutor as well."

The triplets were clearing his plates, mumbling to themselves, they glanced at Hannah, who was stood near the door way – she was such an eyesore… Claude was stood beside his chair, he pushed up his glasses to the bridge of his nose; a gesture Alois had become so fond of.

"Is that so, Your Highness?"

"Yes!" he laughed, "That's what gave me my brilliant idea for today!" he stood up, twirling happily, "I want you to be my tutor! Teach me mathematics, literature and languages and dancing! Yes! You should teach me dancing! I will need to practice if I should make a good impression at the ball!" he clapped his hands, laughing, "Yes! Yes! You have too, Claude! It's an order! Tell me, you will?"

"Yes Your Highness."

He twirled around again, "Let's go to the hall!"

When the Old Man was alive he had a tutor come and teach Alois. Claude had watched him then as well. He struggled with mathematics the most. The tutor had not been allowed to strike him for making mistakes. The Old Man saw to that, the tutor, a very frigid looking woman with mousy hair and a pinched nose, would report to him after each class. He would cane his backside and when he started getting weaker and couldn't do it himself, he had that wretched Lincoln do it. Lincoln had been the former butler; he was as monstrous as the Old Man had been. He had tried to stop Alois from going in to see the Old Man when he was on his death bed.

Poor Lincoln, he fell down the stairs just a few days after the Old Man passed away. Such a tragic accident… It made him incredibly sad to think of it.

Dancing had been his favourite – he liked Spanish dancing, Fernando had taught him that. They had practiced in the Viscount's home, in the big glass roofed ballroom. He had held him close and whispered in his ear to, 'Send four-eyes away'. Alois had laughed and told Claude he was a nuisance and to face the wall with his hands on his hand. Fernando had told him he was a very cruel little spider.

He had been cruel, because he wanted to dance with Claude. And now he finally would!

Hannah set up the record player; Alois did not recognize the music. He should have to learn. It would be another mistake that could harm his cause later. For a moment he began to worry again, and then Claude held out his hand, "Maybe I have this dance, Your Highness?"

Alois took it with enthusiasm, squeezing hard, "Yes! Ok, what will you teach me first?"

"The waltz is always the best to start with."

"Oh, Claude," he pouted, "I've danced a hundred million waltzes! Can't you teach me something different – something fast pace and sexy?"

His eyebrow twitched ever so slightly, followed by a stiff nod of his head, "Your Highness, I thought you intended me to be your tutor this morning? A tutor is not usually commanded by their pupil. They mould their student into their lessons, as it were."

Alois frowned, "Humph… fine."

"Besides," he lowered his head, smirking, "I thought my master intended to have a long dance lesson? The waltz is just for starters."

His face lit up and he held the hand gently, letting his hand rest on top of Claude's, "You are taller, Claude, so you can dance as the man," he told him, "I mean, if my tutor will allow…" he smiled playfully.

"I do not see why not."

Claude's hand was on his back, not gripping or pressing or timid. It felt… natural, this was why he imagined Claude's hand would feel on him. His own rose to lie upon his shoulder, Alois wanted to stand a little closer to him, but Claude was holding him firm. It was not quite what he had hoped for… but it was still nice.

"You begin on your heel," he instructed, "And bring your foot forwards, yes, master, like that." They began moving, Claude's feet were so graceful, Alois's following almost in perfect timing. They turned and twirled through the steps, their footwork matching. Claude did not smile, but he did nod encouragingly.

That was his way. He was so adorable as a tutor, so stern it made him blush to look at him close up.

After the waltz, a simple fox trot, and after that the tango; the tango was Alois's favourite of the three, Claude was passionate when he danced. He had seen his butler tapping his feet so quickly before he made wonders happen, moving so quickly and gracefully. He would twist not just his legs, but his arms too; like he was in full flight. It was a wonder to see. Alois let out a soft gasp as Claude tilted him back, he was breathing hard, one of his feet raised in the air, letting his butler's hand on his back be his assurance that he would not fall. Slowly his hands rose up and held his butler's face, fingertips almost meeting where his jaw met his ears. They were so close, Claude leaning over him like that, clasping him tight, their chests close. For a second he imagined the other man would kiss him, how it would feel to have his Claude kiss him…

And then he was straightened up, his feet back on the ground, those strong, smooth hands away from him. It felt like his head was spinning.

"You must remember to keep one's hands in proper position," Claude said calmly, "Passion is the centre of the tango, but you must not forget the proper positions. Other than that, you did well, master. This concludes our dancing lesson."

Alois was still flushed, his legs felt a little wobbly, "Oh, yes…"

"And now I will escort you to the study, you have an hour of mathematics. I will begin with some long division-"

That jolted him back to his senses, "What?"

"Yes, Your Highness, long division, some basic multiplication and oh, yes, we shall practice your times tables…"

"Claude, you are just my dance tutor!"

"No, no, sir, you instructed me to be your tutor. I believe you said you wanted to learn mathematics, literature, languages as well as dancing. I am better at the German language than French, what would you like to learn?"

"Claude-!"

"My master commanded me to be his tutor for the day, and I will teach you as rigorously as I can. It is on my duty as your butler, Your Highness."

Something told him his decision, perhaps, had not been the wisest.

"Come now, master, it is a noblemen's place to be well learned. I will transform day into night, sugar into salt, creatures to corpses, and in this case, my master into an educated gentleman. That's what makes a Trancy butler."


	4. Chapter 3

Authors note: Sorry we haven't uploaded in a while! We took a rather length Christmas siesta!)

Chapter Three

By Robin Mask

"Huh?"

The Undertaker stared hard at the foot that rested on the makeshift 'ball'.

It took a long minute to recognise what was happening. He was still bent rather low and his arm was still outstretched, his eyes narrowed expectantly on the skull he had been using to knock over an array of beakers, but the skull – instead of continuing on its perfect pace and accurate trajectory – was trapped under a well-shone shoe. He wasn't used to people intruding on his games, but in this case he found himself a little intrigued. It was more than possible to lose a match but win a game.

He looked curiously at the boots the owner of the foot wore, admiring the red-and-black pattern and the slight heel at the back . . . practical and yet fashionable, enough to give the illusion of height but wide enough not to throw one off-balance in battle. The boot moved up to a leg cloaked in a sensible pair of trousers, a slight bend to the knee as if the owner sought to make a simple action into a flamboyant pose, and that went up further to a rather thin – well looked after – torso wrapped in a beautifully blood-red coat that seemed to make the body beneath as fragile as a spider's web draped with morning dew. The red-hair fell about the owner in a shower of satin.

The Undertaker smiled dangerously and stood up to full height. He steepled his fingers together in front of his face and looked over them with eyes hidden behind his shaggy fringe, and as he looked he giggled in such a manner that it caused Grell's expression to change drastically. The redhead's head lowered, his green eyes narrowed in anger whilst his eyebrows came upwards as if in pain, and he seemed to pout just slightly . . . in an almost adorable way . . .

"My, my," the Undertaker said darkly, "the lady does not look pleased to see me."

"I don't typically make it my place to socialise with violators and deserters."

"Only demons and children, I take it?"

Grell flinched visibly. His green eyes seemed to flare for a moment before he kicked the skull hard directly at the Undertaker . . . there had been a time when the silver-haired man would have caught it cockily in his hands, or perhaps even allowed it to hit him, because he willingly seemed to take any abuse given to him when it was more convenient than actually stopping said abuse. He had once even gone so far as to let Grell steal his clothes and bury him in salt. How things had changed . . .

The silver-haired man spun quickly to one side, allowing the skull to fly past him and smash into a glass jar that held within its depths a human kidney, and upon impact a stream of foul liquid spewed out upon the floor whilst the kidney hit the ground with obscene splat. The skull itself broke into pieces. No longer would soliloquies be said to it, no longer would it symbolise the process of death . . . no longer would the Undertaker be able to turn it upside-down upon his desk and use it to hold his pencils and pens as he worked upon his paperwork . . .

"Now that wasn't very friendly, was it?"

His smile faded into a faint upturned line; something that by definition was a smile, but yet held a dangerous glimmer of anger and frustration. He looked to Grell and instinctively reached inside his black cloak to pull out a long sotoba, the gesture was fluid and graceful, and he couldn't held but notice the twitch of Grell's eye as the scar just underneath his eyebrow stretched in a rather interesting way. The redhead changed his expression quickly though, so that now his teeth were bared like a smiling shark, and his hands brought out his chainsaw as if from air.

"Oh? You want friendly?" Grell asked with a sort of bloodlust in his eyes. "I would have thought inserting a hard object into a lady's skin, breaking through that barrier, and taking without permission something that cannot ever be fixed was as far from 'friendly' as one can get . . . shall I mark your face with an ugly scar, too?"

"Ugly scar? Oh? I'm hurt. Am I really that ugly?"

The Undertaker pushed back his hair and exposed his green eyes. Grell at once blushed and turned his head to one side with a frown, caught between wanting to throw himself on the silver-haired man and eviscerating him with his chainsaw. It was such a pure mixture of love and hate that made the Undertaker laugh in amusement, thrilling sadistically in the conflict that waged in Grell's mind.

"Why, I could wrap you around my little finger," the Undertaker said, lifting his left hand to wave his scarred pinkie finger at Grell. "Shall I try?"

"I would be delighted if you did. I owe you for marring my beautiful face!"

"Anyone else would say it's an improvement, my lady."

"Then allow me to return the favour!"

"Please. Amuse me."

Grell was the first one to make a move.

He revved his chainsaw and bent forward as he ran at the Undertaker with a fast pace, his chainsaw pulled backwards so as to came full force at the other man's chest, but the silver haired man had expected this much. The Undertaker pulled to one side and raised his sotoba to – rather than block the oncoming attack – divert the attack, causing Grell to fall forward and his scythe to knock to one side, allowing the deserter to spin around and come behind him, taking advantage of his blunder.

The sotoba fast became the scythe that it hid, and with this scythe the pale man drew it back ready for a fast and deadly blow, willing to rip apart the man from behind in a rather poetic way . . . he aimed his scythe for the scar of the coat, for the ripped back where it had been sewn together rather hastily and amateurishly. He would slice Grell where Grell had sliced Madame Red, where the Undertaker had stabbed Sebastian, and he would relish in the act. He would stab him in the back. He thrust forward his scythe and aimed perfectly for his desired spot, a low laugh muffled behind his lips and he smiled almost warmly, waiting for the blade to hit . . .

It was then that something knocked him back.

His scythe had been poised to hit, but something large and red had came from nowhere and struck his scythe hard enough to force him backwards, leaving Grell safe from harm as he fell hard upon the ground. The redheaded man rolled over onto his back and looked across the funeral parlour to the Undertaker with a beautifully submissive stare, before glaring harshly and climbing to his feet with a growl. Ronald posed in front of him with a cocky laugh.

The blond boy looked over his shoulder and winked to Grell, using his hand to come up into a rather arrogant 'V'-sign for victory. He leaned against the bar of his lawnmower as he looked across to the Undertaker as well, waiting for his superior to climb to his feet before making a move or a sound. Grell merely flicked his chainsaw and cricked his neck, observing their opponent carefully as the two men stood side-by-side, looking like a perfect team. They remembered well the obstacles they fought when they battled last time, but last time there had been a demon interfering, this time there would be an equal match.

"You didn't think Sempai would come alone, did you?" Ronald asked.

"So William finally sent you to collect me, did he?" The Undertaker let out a long giggle as he wandered around a medical dummy, holding it from behind akin to a shield or possibly even a lover. "Now that is amusing! Does he really think that the two of you can cart away me? I wonder if he knows the risk. I wonder if he is aware that even Death must die . . ."

"Sadly we're not here for that," Grell snapped.

"Oh?"

"Yes, although I would love to have you bound beneath me as I interrogate you for any and all information I think pertinent to our case . . . I wonder what sounds a man like you would usher. They say loud men like you are often the most quiet when it comes to . . . obtaining information. I wonder how fast I could make you spill?"

The Undertaker laughed to himself as he observed Ronald's reaction. The blond Shinigami slumped his shoulders and narrowed his gaze to his older colleague with a twitching eyebrow, his frustration seeping through in waves as he patiently – and maturely – held his tongue and refrained from chastising the man whom was ranked higher than him. They made a good team: Ronald kept his companion in check, Grell kept his friend alive. They balanced each other well and brought out the best in one another. He was almost disappointed that they didn't want to fight.

"Miss Sutcliff," Ronald said calmly as possible, "we talked about 'professionalism'?"

"Oh please! You're not one to talk! You just posed for goodness' sake!" Grell disposed of his death scythe and flicked his hair over his shoulder. "You can't declare victory with a colleague on the floor anyway! That's not a victory, that was basically a stalemate!"

"Youngsters today," the Undertaker chirped in, "no sense of professional style, eh?"

"No one asked you!" Grell and Ronald snapped.

The Undertaker lifted his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender, after returning his scythe to its previous hiding place. The two Shinigami seemed mildly frustrated with one another, more so with him, and he had to admit to an equal feeling of annoyance where the two were concerned. Thanks to them and Sebastian his test had been compromised and his results were now completely unusable, he owed them just as much in terms of revenge as they perhaps owed him.

He slid upwards onto his desk and watched the two silently as they stood bickering with one another, Ronald pulling out a list as he insisted that Grell check it, both of them sending nervous glances over to the Undertaker as they did so, making sure he was still where they left him. He waved. Grell scowled and returned to looking at the list. It was times like these where the Undertaker wished he still had access to the list, because it was certainly frustrating that someone else was privy to information that he was not, especially when it drove them to his funeral parlour when he was essentially in hiding. It made him curious.

"I'm surprised it took an anomaly with your list for you to come find me," the Undertaker said softly with a soft laugh at the end. "It's enough to make a humble, old undertaker feel so very unloved . . ."

"Well, it isn't like Miss Sutcliff would really want to drag you in now," Ronald said curiously, handing Grell the list flippantly whilst the redhead snatched it away. "Plus Mister Spears says we have bigger fish to fry right at this moment. It's what we came here to talk to you about . . . long shot, I'll admit, but I'm still young so for me the cups are half full! You know how it is."

"Hmm, indeed. Still . . . a lady can never forgive a scar upon her face, especially not when it mars her beauty so cruelly . . . why would a lady forgive such a man enough not to wish to drag him in for questioning?"

"Well, you know what they say," Ronald said cheerfully, "you got to best her to bed her – hey! That hurts, Sempai!"

"Serves you right!"

Grell smacked Ronald again hard across the head with a blush.

He clenched his hand in a tight fist and kept it positioned before him as he glared at his subordinate; his other hand sat upon his hip as he cocked his body to one side, his eyes glared darkly at Ronald with a passionate fury. He was clearly furious, but equally embarrassed by such a sensitive confession to their acknowledged foe, and yet there was something rather handsome about the blush upon his cheeks.

The Undertaker laughed quietly to himself as he watched the pair curiously, sliding from his desk to make his way around to the kettle that sat by the area set aside for dissections. He filled the kettle and watched as Ronald rubbed his head childishly in pain and apologised profusely to the redhead in embarrassed tones, whereas the redheaded man simply folded his arms and looked away with his head high and his nostrils flared. Red hair, red coat, red cheeks . . . the Undertaker laughed as he thought about why a man so in love with the colour red would also be so in love with the concept of passion, before reminding himself of the shade that passion often took in the midst of its height . . . the human body was capable of so much!

He carefully poured the tea and arranged some biscuits upon a plate, watching from the corner of his eyes as the two men bickered and fought. It was difficult to make out details from the distance, – being pathetically shortsighted as the rest of his kind – but he could see their general shapes well enough and he had memorised their appearances during their close encounters during their previous meetings. Still, regardless of the bad blood that was no excuse for being a bad host. He knew well that more flies were caught with honey than with vinegar.

"Would you both care for some refreshments?"

He carried the tray over to them, at which point Ronald seemed to brighten up and smiled wildly, his green eyes half-closed in delight as he cocked his head to one side and raised his hand high in a signal of thanks. It was only when he reached out to grab a biscuit that Grell hit his hand hard and moved to stand in front of him, both hands resting on his hips as he practically growled at the blond.

"Why do I always get paired with you?" Grell snapped. "You don't accept 'treats' from people during work, especially not from someone who previously tried to kill you! Oh, it's so frustrating being paired with a greenhorn . . . it's like you want to be poisoned! Luckily for you Grell-sempai is here to teach you! You're my darling, little Ronald and I'll protect you from the big, bad man!"

Ronald looked longingly at the tray. The tea was steaming hot and seemed to be a rare blend, albeit served in a strange looking beaker, and the biscuits looked so fresh and crisp that they were surely freshly baked and homemade. He wasn't one to let his stomach rule his head, nor was he one to watch his figure, but he had worked really hard the past few days – especially with all the overtime – and he wanted just one little break. It hardly seemed fair to decline what was being offered, but Grell was probably right . . . he shouldn't be accepting treats from the Undertaker of all people.

"I suppose you're right," Ronald said forlornly.

"Of course I'm right!" Grell snapped, reaching out for a biscuit on the tray. "Those beakers he serves the tea in he uses for dissection –"

"I do disinfect them first," the Undertaker said with a hint of sadness.

"Not the point!"

"I have mugs somewhere," the Undertaker said, removing one hand from the tray to touch his lip in thought, "I can get some of those if the lady prefers? If it's a touch of class that one wants I could even find some teacups and saucers . . . I think one of my clients' relatives left some in a box of their possessions. I haven't gotten around to donating them to the workhouse yet."

"See, Miss Sutcliff!" Ronald chirped. "We can have tea in cups! Come on, it'd be a nice break and we could be here for a while anyway. Plus I think that's Earl Grey in there, he's even serving the good stuff!"

"Do you even know what the words 'it could be poisoned' mean?"

Ronald frowned as he watched Grell take a bite of the biscuit. His colleague could be such a hypocrite at times, always chastising him for things that he himself did, and even Mister Spears seemed to share the philosophy of 'do as I say and not what I do', but – to Ronald – it was highly unfair. He wondered if it was a seniority thing, where just because they were older that they thought they knew better.

"You're eating the biscuit though," Ronald said in an almost whine. "Why can't I?"

"Oh, hush you!"

Grell grabbed another biscuit and shoved it roughly into Ronald's mouth. The blond glared darkly and dangerously to his superior, but he merely accepted the biscuit and began to munch upon it happily. He looked from the two long-haired men to the tray, then shrugged and grabbed a beaker of hot tea, before wandering over to a coffin and sitting down to enjoy his snack.

Grell let out a long and heavy sigh as he dropped his head and rubbed a hand threw his hair in exasperation, he seemed genuinely frustrated by Ronald and yet at the same time had an affectionate liking towards the boy. It was what had made the Undertaker's battle so much easier to win that day on the Campania . . . any attack upon Ronald would have his 'mentor' furious, he would quickly chastise Ronald for any perceived mistake, but then quickly come to his rescue. The Undertaker had assumed this was just their dynamics in battle, but it seemed to control their professional and personal lives too.

The Undertaker walked around to his desk and placed the tray down, waving over Grell who – with a reluctant sigh – followed suit. The redhead threw himself down into a dusty chair, throwing his legs over the arm as he draped his head backwards with a long moan, lamenting over his situation. The Undertaker began opening cupboards and boxes before he found out the teacups in mention, and after washing them he proceeded to give tea in a manner he could not object to.

"Enjoying your poisoned tea, Miss Sutcliff?" Ronald called over.

"Oh, will you just shut up!"

"If it is poison we're in the best place considering," Ronald chirped again. "Still, this is something we'll be leaving out of our reports, right? I don't think Mister Spears would like to know we accepted afternoon tea at the Undertaker's."

Grell sat up abruptly and pulled himself into an actual sitting position, his feet on the ground with his legs crossed in an elegant and feminine manner. He sipped his tea politely and watched as the Undertaker came up beside him, sliding onto the desk and leaning a little into his personal space . . . it was rather creepy, but – if he remembered his time as Angelina's butler well – he knew that the silver-haired man enjoyed making others uncomfortable. He especially seemed fond of touching Ciel and making the aristocrat squirm, he seemed to know what irked others and what got under their skin . . . it was certainly a 'talent' of sorts.

"Let's just get to work for once, shall we?" Grell snapped.

The redhead forcefully put the teacup down and pulled out his list. It was just his luck that the damned tea spilled and small patches of liquid dropped onto his thigh. He growled loudly, trying to hold back the urge to rip out his death scythe or scream abuse at the Undertaker, because the Undertaker was now laughing and no one laughed at Grell! It was just plain offensive that someone could find his stained clothes amusing, especially when that person was a traitor!

It was only when the laughter suddenly felt a lot closer, and he felt a rather curious pressure on his thigh, that he looked away from the list to see the Undertaker's green eyes right before his face . . . and his hand rubbing a cloth against his thigh, in a rather inappropriate position that left Grell blushing all the more. The redhead had enough. He punched the Undertaker hard and growled aloud.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?"

"The lady had a little spill," the Undertaker giggled out. "I wouldn't be a gentleman unless I helped her to clean up the mess I helped to make, or would you prefer to rub it out yourself?"

"You -! I should paint you red! You vermin!"

The Undertaker was rubbing his jaw where the redhead had punched him, still laughing with a dangerous smile when Grell's hand scrunched the list up in his tight fist and he stood abruptly. He was shaking in rage and his face was flushed a dark red. It was hard to tell if he was enraged by such presumption that the Undertaker found it okay to touch him to clean up the mess, or if he were actually rather embarrassed by the fact he liked such a close proximity and assertive presumption. The Undertaker could only giggle as he prepared himself for a very hard and intense fight.

"Miss Sutcliff!" Ronald called over, downing the end of his tea. "We have work to do. The sooner we get it done the sooner we can get out of here, I have a party with the office girls later on tonight! How am I supposed to get a hangover unless I'm on time to drink the night away first? You can save your fight for later, right? Just I really want to get this over with!"

"You're lucky," Grell spat. "I could have ripped you to shreds."

"Hmm? Your scythe doesn't seem that scary to me," the Undertaker said as he held his chin and gazed away in thought. "Now if it were as large as mine I'm sure it could easily cleave me in two, but as it is I doubt you could even make me feel it, let alone 'cut me to shreds'. Do you still want to try?"

Grell seemed sorely tempted, enough to pause for a long moment to consider the implications of fighting their foe in the midst of the funeral parlour, but as he caught sight of Ronald – standing to intervene should the need arise – he stopped and instead resorted to behaving . . . indeed a last resort. He flourished forth the list and waved it rather manically and violently in front of the Undertaker's face.

The silver-haired man took a hold of the paper between two long, black fingernails and observed it with a rather cold stare. It was clearly a 'to-die' list, but from immediately looking upon it there was very little of anything unusual, unless of course you were familiar with the underground and the recent news . . . it wasn't surprising that someone like William would have noticed the discrepancies and odd means of demise, but what was odd was that the Shinigami felt it their place to get involved. It had to be the suspicion of demonic activity that drew them to it, but with such circumstantial evidence this seemed to be going overboard.

He signalled for Grell to take a seat, waving his hand a couple of times rather indifferently, and – much to his amusement – he saw Grell fall to his seat and lean both elbows upon the desk, his head in his hands as he looked up at the Undertaker with wide eyes and a rather innocent expression. It would have been adorable had it not been for Ronald coming behind Grell, resting a hand on the back of the chair, and giving the Undertaker a very dark look.

The Undertaker hadn't realised until that moment that he had been staring with curiosity at Grell, and it seemed that Ronald both had the wrong impression and was highly protective of his mentor. He smiled to himself and tried his best not to let his muffled giggle turn into outright laughter. In a gentle movement he leaned inwards and made to hand Grell the list . . . the list that Ronald snatched back.

The Undertaker frowned.

"So what can you tell us about the names highlighted on the list?" Ronald asked.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing . . . without something in exchange for my services."

"You want payment?" Ronald hung his head and sighed. "Can we claim reimbursement for that, Miss Sutcliff? It's got to count as work-related expenses, plus I've got to buy at least one round at that party later . . ."

"He doesn't want money," Grell said tersely. "He wants a joke."

The Undertaker let out a creepy laugh as he leaned across the table into Grell's personal space, wagging his finger in front of the man's face as Grell glared daggers at him. Ronald watched with a morbid interest, but his gloved hand tightened considerably on the back of the chair and he leaned forward too, his eyes never moving from the silver-haired man in case some form of attack came suddenly and unexpectedly. Grell started to feel claustrophobic.

"Don't worry, I know how to make someone laugh," Grell said with a smile.

"Yeah," Ronald said, leaning back with a confused pout, "problem is I don't think you do know when you're making someone laugh, Sutcliff-sempai. I mean it's that difference between laughing at someone and laughing with them . . ."

"Look, if he wants a joke then I'll give him one!"

The Undertaker looked at the redhead in amusement. The other man stood up so abruptly that Ronald was forced to jump backwards in order to avoid being knocked in the face by Grell's head, but soon he was on his feet with one hand on his hip and his devilish smile piquing the silver-headed man's curiosity. He tried not to smile too much as Grell sauntered around him, hips swaying so that he looked rather tempting, and he couldn't help but swallow as Grell trailed a hand over the Undertaker's chest as he walked, almost stroking him languidly as he strolled to the other side of the room. It was a rather tempting sight as much as it was interesting.

The redhead stopped before a cloudy mirror that hung on the wall, and as he stopped he withdrew some lipstick from his coat pocket and painted his lips, before puckering in front of the mirror and winking at this reflection. He then spun around and leant against the wall beside the mirror. He gave the Undertaker such a sultry look that the silver-haired man shuddered and giggled just a little . . .

"I know a joke when I see one," Grell said softly, one hand on his hip stroking a path upwards where he began to loosen the bow upon his neck. "I wonder if our friend here sees a joke too? Look in the mirror, Undertaker. There's the joke."

Grell stopped his sensual teasing and used both hands to point to the mirror on his left, the mirror that was now directly opposite the Undertaker. The silver-haired man saw his own reflection and heard the low groan of disbelief from Ronald, heard the cocky laughter from Grell, and heard his own rumbling laughter starting low and deep in his chest, bubbling forth into a dangerous chuckling. He leaned back against the desk and grabbed a hold of its edge with both hands . . . staring hard at Grell.

"It's funny that you would dare to say such a thing, my lady."

"Then you find it funny. I win." Grell came forward and stabbed the Undertaker hard on the chest with a pointed finger. "Now, as per the terms and conditions of the usual agreement, I want information. Now."

The Undertaker sighed and sat on the desk with a half-amused smile. The redhead had undone his bow enough that a slither of skin was visible at his chest, and he was so furious that his cheeks were flushed a visible red. He looked handsome, and he was the only person willing to fight the Undertaker or stand up to him in such a manner, and he seemed so unafraid too . . . it was curious indeed. It made him wish to withhold information just to see what Grell would do, but something told him it would be better to stay on the man's good side . . . just this once.

"Very well," the Undertaker replied. "What do you wish to know?"

"Well," Grell said, pouting just a little, "whatever you know would be great. It seems that there's been a spate of murders across the country, but they're all been committed by demons . . . or as far as we can tell. The trouble is that not one soul has been consumed by those foul beasts! I mean, who does such a thing? No one spends that long devouring their food only to spit it out at the last minute, a demon should at least be polite enough to swallow whatever soul it ejects from a body."

"Wow," Ronald mumbled, "I didn't think even you could make murder into an innuendo. You've outdone yourself, Miss Sutcliff."

"Why, thank you!"

The redhead smiled warmly and flicked a lock of long, red hair behind his back. He seemed pleased with himself, almost as if he had achieved some great feat, and the way he turned his body was almost feminine and rather arrogant. It was as if he didn't feel the Undertaker was worthy enough an adversary to keep an eye upon, and yet the way he looked so admiringly over those red glasses at the Undertaker gave the silver-haired man shivers. He felt as if he were being devoured visually. He let out a genuinely amused laugh and tried his best to stay still, refusing to let Grell know just how interested he truly was.

"What I can tell you is simple," the Undertaker said in sudden seriousness. "I hope that you both realise that 'need' and 'want' are very different things, though. I can tell you what you want, but not what you need . . ."

Grell turned and bent forward a little so that his eyes were at level with Undertaker, who was still practically sitting on the desk. His red hair fell forward so that it now rested upon the leather of Undertaker's boot, trailing down his thigh and slightly beneath his knee, and when Grell let out a grunt of frustration and pulled back the Undertaker took his chance and took a hold of that hair.

The redhead was suddenly pulled forward again, almost as if on a leash, and suddenly he felt a spark of fear . . . it wasn't the fear he felt when Sebastian aimed for his face, or even when he was in battle with a man set to kill him, it was the enjoyable sort of fear . . . the adrenaline rush one got with fear, but the knowledge that one was safe. It was a relinquishing of control, but without truly being controlled. He gulped when the hand reached further up, virtually near the root, and it was only when he saw a foot in front dangerously in front of his face that he screamed and suddenly the hold on his hair was completely removed.

"Don't touch Sutcliff-sempai so freely," Ronald snapped, lowering his leg and ignoring the Undertaker as he rubbed his hand in pain. "You want to touch him then you'll have to pay the price like everyone else."

"Bastard! What do I look like to you? A hooker?"

"Ah! That came out wrong, Miss Sutcliff! What I meant was that –"

The Undertaker frowned as he watched the redhead beat the younger boy about the head, yelling all sorts of abuse at him as the blond backtracked considerably, desperate to make amends and explain just what it was that he meant. It turned out 'pay the price' meant 'earn his friendship', but a lack of good rhetoric had soon become the least of Ronald's problems as Grell eventually spun around with arms folded and began to sulk.

"You! Talk!" Grell snapped, pointing a finger at the Undertaker violently.

The Undertaker looked to Ronald who was rubbing his neck in embarrassment, the poor boy didn't need any more hassle than what he already had: "Hmm, I suppose I can give you some information."

"Ah, that's a relief!" Ronald gasped.

"If you must know," the Undertaker said, picking up a globe and spinning it in his hand for the sheer pleasure of doing so, "it isn't just missing persons that you ought to be looking into. Humans are so strange . . . a rose by any other name . . . it's as if you change the name and you change the soul, but I wonder if that is true? My lady here was so depressed and sad when she played the role of a butler . . ."

"I'll be playing the role of your mortician if you don't hurry up!" Grell shouted.

"Hmm, well," he said, lifting the globe high to stare into its depths, "if the lady puts it like that . . . there has not only been a glut of corpses, but a glut of absent living souls too. You see . . . there have been an equal amount of disappearing persons as there have been mysterious murders, but you see not one of these bodies have been identified . . . but nor have any of these missing people been found. It makes you wonder if somehow these missing people are connected to these dead bodies?

"Not only that, but you are correct. There has been demonic involvement. It's not possible to say which demon or why, simply that the attacks were . . . demonic. If what you say is true then it is suspicious indeed that the demon in question has been leaving the souls for the Shinigami to collect, it's almost as if he or she wants to be caught, but . . . it makes your job easier."

"I don't see how," Grell said bitterly. "The dead don't talk."

"No, but they do paint a portrait."

The Undertaker put down the globe and walked about the room, his hands tracing every surface as he went, small giggles escaping his lips as he wandered about. Grell's eyes never left his frame, he watched the silver-haired man with a keen interest, whilst Ronald – on the other hand – seemed to glare daggers at the man, only watching him insofar as to judge his movements and anticipate any potential attacks. It was nice to be the centre of such attention . . .

He stopped in the centre of the room and dropped down besides a coffin. It was freshly polished and freshly varnished, and inside was a fresh corpse . . . there was something of a foul stench when the Undertaker reached down and slid open the lid, a mixture of the iron scent of blood and the bitter stench of disinfectant. Grell winced and covered his nose with his sleeve, whilst Ronald pulled a face that should have belonged on a child half of his age. The Undertaker merely laughed and lifted the body to a sitting position, whereupon he sat beside it and wrapped his arms around it like an old friend, supporting its weight as if it were entirely natural to do so.

"Have you forgotten about the cinematic records?" He took a hold of the body's hand and made it wave at Grell. "How else do you think William and I have such certainty of demonic involvement?"

"The cinematic records!" Ronald and Grell shouted in unison.

"I can tell you this for certain," the Undertaker said, laying the body back down to rest, "that demons certainly have been busy recently killing a variety of people from all walks of life, but that these people also have two lives. Jekyll and Hyde never had it so good! Look how beautiful she is, how at peace, no one lies in death although she certainly is lying." He chuckled at his own pun and closed the lid. "Her body speaks only the truth, from it I can read all records of her life without any fear of half-truths. If you want to know more then you'll have to pay the price."

"Another joke?"

"Hmm, do I want to hear another joke?"

The Undertaker came forward and stood before the two Shinigami with a wide and disarming smile, his fingers coming together in a steeple as he cocked his head to one side and chuckled under his breath. He observed the pair carefully for a long moment. There was a lot to be said for a joke, but there was also a lot to be said for making connections and obtaining information . . . he had been close enough to Vincent Phantomhive to learn all he needed to about the inner workings of the aristocracy, but surely an inside link to the Shinigami would be useful as well?

"No, I think not." He reached out and took a hold of Grell's chin firmly, before snapping it to one side in disdain. "Revenge would be sweet, but information would be sweeter still . . . the lady is welcome to come back alone should she require more information, but for now I have work to do. I am sure you both have work to do too, do you not? Please, come again soon! Repeat customers are what I live for!"

"Let's go, Miss Sutcliff. We have enough to make Mister Spears happy for now, and personally I don't trust this guy . . . if he wants a repeat performance then it sure won't be from either of us, right?"

"Yes, I suppose you're right . . ."

Grell sighed and ran a hand threw his hair, before heading to the door of the funeral parlour. Ronald followed obediently, albeit he cast a final dark glare at the Undertaker, as if warning him what would happen should he follow the pair, but the Undertaker merely stayed in place and watched the pair as they left with the information that they needed. The redhead cast a strange glance back at him before leaving the building, and it assured the Undertaker that the redhead was definitely wrapped in his web ready to be captured.

"Bye, bye," he said as a final parting, "please visit my humble abode again soon."

He laughed heartily as the door closed . . .

"I'll be expecting you."


End file.
